


Body and Heart

by tittysatan



Category: Princess Tutu
Genre: Angst, Dubious Consent, Introspection, Multi, Pre-Series, Very sad sex, awkward unspoken poly, because whether or not mytho is capable of consent at this point is itself pretty dubious, meaning mytho has no emotions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2020-01-12 09:44:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18443996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tittysatan/pseuds/tittysatan
Summary: Mytho may not have a heart to claim, but he does have a body.





	Body and Heart

Fakir woke to a cold wind against his face. The windows were open, the curtains flapping like trapped birds, and the boy they framed was the same luminous white as they were. Hair and skin glowing in the moonlight, he looked ethereal, and for a moment Fakir could do nothing but stare.

“What do you think you’re doing, idiot?” he finally said, pushing the covers aside and getting up to slam the windows shut.

“I was looking at the moon,” Mytho said.

“I keep telling you, don’t open the windows at night,” Fakir said, pulling the curtains closed and climbing back into bed. “You’ll catch a cold.”

“Sorry,” Mytho said, turning his liquid gold eyes on Fakir. Even in the dark room he seemed illuminated, white hair falling softly around his delicate features, slender legs bare beneath his shirt. Beautiful as a prince from a storybook.

“Come here.”

Mytho slipped into bed next to him.

“…use your mouth,” Fakir said, pulling off his shorts, sitting up against the headboard, spreading his legs.

Wordlessly, Mytho shifted down on the bed and did as he was told.

Fakir hardened quickly under his practiced tongue, burying his fingers in soft white hair, biting his lip to suppress a moan as Mytho’s lips wrapped around him. He knew it didn’t mean anything. Mytho pleasured him the same way he danced—with the emotionless perfection of a doll. He simply did what he was told, nothing more. He had never refused Fakir, not in this or anything else.

But more even than the pleasure of Mytho’s lips and tongue working him was the sight of his prince looking up from between Fakir’s legs. It might feel like he was sullying him, but there was an awful possessive satisfaction in that. Mytho didn’t need to listen to anyone but him; Mytho didn’t need anyone but him; Mytho was _his_ , and Fakir could do whatever he wanted with him.

“Ahh, Mytho…” Fakir moaned as he came, legs tightening around Mytho’s head, holding him in place as the prince worked him through his orgasm. Finally Fakir released him, falling back against the headboard, catching his breath as he was licked clean. “…you missed some, dummy,” he mumbled, pointing at the corner of Mytho’s mouth where cum had dripped down.

“Sorry,” Mytho said, wiping it with his sleeve, then looking up at Fakir with his empty amber eyes, unmoving.

“…get yourself ready for me.”

“Uh-huh.”

Mytho leaned over Fakir to get the lube from the bedside table, sat back in front of him, squirted some on his hand, spread his legs, pushed a finger inside himself with a soft whine. He wasn’t hard. Fakir had learned ages ago that Mytho’s body would react to touch, but only his body. Nothing aroused him; nothing filled him with desire the way the sight of his pale, slender body did to Fakir. Sex meant nothing to him; he just did what he was told.

At times like this, Fakir kind of hated him.

Mytho let out little noises as he touched himself, legs twitching against the sheets, face flushed and mouth open as he slowly started to get hard, and Fakir watched. He was already hard himself again, achingly so.

At times like this, Fakir kind of hated himself too.

“I’m ready,” Mytho finally said, giving himself one last stretch before withdrawing his hand and wiping it on his shirt.

“Lie down here,” Fakir said, moving away from the headboard and patting the pillows, shifting to crouch over Mytho when he did as he was told, hitching the prince’s legs up over his hips and positioning himself, reaching down to brush the hair from his eyes, caress his face.

Fakir always felt like he should say something in these moments, but he never knew what. It wouldn’t make a difference anyways, not if he said “I want you so bad” or “you’re perfect” or “I love you.” Mytho wouldn’t care.

So instead Fakir drove inside without a word, just like he always did, breath catching from the tight heat of his insides, the way Mytho clung to him with arms and legs, the long, low moan his prince let out. “Mytho…” Fakir breathed as he began to thrust, slow and gentle. The noises Mytho made were those of pleasure; he was hard against Fakir’s stomach; his back arched and his head tossed against the pillows; and that was something, wasn’t it? Even if all Fakir could reach was his prince’s body, not the heart that wasn’t there, that was still something.

Fakir reached between their bodies to stroke Mytho in time with his thrusts, feeling himself drawing closer and closer to the edge with each one. Then Mytho gave a soft cry, tightening around Fakir as he came, spilling hot against his hand, and Fakir came as well with a moan of  “Mytho…!” riding out his orgasm inside him before collapsing on top of him, panting for breath.

After a moment, Fakir carefully pulled out, shifting to lie next to Mytho on the narrow bed. He knew better than to ask if he’d enjoyed it. He was so tired of hearing “I don’t know.”

“Sleep here tonight,” Fakir said instead, pulling the blankets up to cover them both, drawing Mytho into his arms. Gently, he tilted his prince’s face up and pressed their lips together. “Good night, Mytho.”

“Good night, Fakir.”

Mytho had never refused him, not in this or anything.

Fakir knew he was the first; the first time he asked Mytho, he hadn’t understood. Fakir had to teach him. But after that…

If someone else asked him, would Mytho refuse?

If Rue asked him, would he refuse?

It was all too easy to imagine her guiding his hand to her breast, or wrapping her legs around his neck, or sitting astride his hips.

Fakir knew that if he asked, Mytho would tell him. He didn’t understand the concept of lying or concealing things.

But Fakir couldn’t ask, because he was afraid of the answer.

“You don’t need anyone but me,” he murmured, pulling Mytho closer. “Just stay with me, and I’ll take care of you.”

“Okay.”

Fakir wished he could believe that Mytho meant it.

 

* * *

  

It was times like this that Rue was most glad she lived alone, outside of the dorms.

She closed the door behind herself and Mytho before embracing him, burying her face in his chest, right where there ought to be the beat of a heart. “Hold me,” she murmured.

He wrapped his arms around her, pressing her body to his.

“Tell me you love me.”

“I love you, Rue.”

“Show me,” she said, pulling him down into a kiss, long and tender. “Make love to me.”

“Uh-huh.”

Mytho picked her up and carried her to the bed, undressing her between kisses, just the way Rue taught him to. It might feel pathetic, playing at lovers like this, but it didn’t feel wrong. She deserved him—his love, his body—because no one else loved him the way she did. No one else could ever love him as much as her. If she had to be the one to take him by the hand and guide him through the steps, then so be it.

“Tell me I’m beautiful,” Rue said, when they were nude in each other’s arms.

“You’re beautiful, Rue.”

Her heart was pounding like the wings of a bird against a too-small cage, and in Mytho’s chest she felt nothing.

“Touch me,” she said, taking his hand and guiding it between her legs, sighing with pleasure as he worked her. Rue wet her fingers between her own legs before beginning to stroke him, gently, feeling him slowly grow hard beneath her hand. It hurt that Mytho didn’t want her the same way she wanted him, but at least he’d never want anyone else either. There was solace in that. He might be a doll, but he was _her_ doll, hers and no one else’s, and she would love him.

Rue trembled against Mytho, legs squirming, feeling the heat inside her pulse and grow. “…that’s enough,” she said, pulling him over on top of her, wrapping her legs around him. “I’m ready. Take me.”

She pulled him down into a kiss, moaning into his mouth as he pushed inside, back arching against him. Mytho’s thrusts were slow and deep, hitting her just right, just the way she’d shown him, and it felt so good to have the boy she loved inside her. When Rue broke the kiss to look at him, Mytho’s face was flushed, golden eyes hazy, breath ragged, and it looked for all the world as though he really did enjoy this. At times like this, it was so easy to forget.

“Tell me…it feels good…” she sighed, arms tight around his back.

“It feels good…”

“I love you… Mytho…” Rue said, feeling herself get closer with every thrust. “Tell me…you love me…”

“I love you, Rue…” he said, voice soft and shaky with pleasure.

“Mytho…!” she cried, clinging to him as she came, body trembling as he worked her through it, pulling him down into a kiss as she caught her breath. This might not mean anything to Mytho, but it was everything to Rue.

She held him as he continued to move inside her, until Mytho tensed with a soft cry of his own, filling her with heat before collapsing like a marionette whose strings had been cut. Legs still wrapped around him, Rue shifted them so they were face to face on the bed, brushing the hair from his damp brow. She suspected Mytho was infertile; an ageless, heartless storybook prince had no need for such things, after all. Not that it made a difference. Rue suspected she was infertile as well; despite how developed her body was, she’d never had a period. She’d long ago resigned herself to never being able to have a child with him.

Rue dozed in his arms for a long while, losing herself in Mytho’s warmth, his scent, until the sky barely visible from the cracks in the curtains faded from blue to violet. Reluctantly, she shifted away from him, making a soft noise as he pulled out, and guided him to the shower. As much as she wished they could stay there like that, together, until morning came, there were rules about such things.

She had to wonder if Fakir knew.

It was all too easy to imagine him asking where Mytho was (with Rue, he’d reply), and then asking what they did together. She had told him not to tell, but it was Mytho, and it was Fakir. Mytho could never refuse him anything.

She had to wonder if Fakir…

Mytho hadn’t understood when Rue first asked him to make love to her, but anything he did with Fakir would have to be so different; enough that perhaps he wouldn’t understand it was really the same thing.

It seemed so plausible and so implausible at the same time. Would Fakir be rough or gentle? Use Mytho like a toy, or embrace him as a lover? She couldn’t imagine.

Rue knew that if she asked, Mytho would tell her. Even if Fakir had told him not to. He could never refuse her anything either.

But she didn’t ask, because she was afraid to know the answer.

“I love you,” Rue said softly, arms around Mytho in front of the closed door. “And you love me too, more than anyone. So stay with me, be mine, always.”

“Okay,” Mytho said, and let her pull him down into a kiss before he left.

Rue wished she could believe that Mytho meant it.


End file.
